Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski 11/9/2019

From boulder to boulder, I was standing on a fragile plank
that separates light from darkness, death from life,
over the huge explosion of the precipice foamed...
Below me, the roar and beating of the wings of a dark night.

Through the moist floor of the moss tapestries, the abyss
is growling and, like a hound, rattling with the chain...
At my feet its foams, its anger, its howling...
I trample them, I strike them with lightning bolts... I am just a shade.

From boulder to boulder, I've descended under the mad assault
of waters, ferociously rushing at me and at the the abyss,
stunned by the simultaneous firing of a hundred death's guns.

And suddenly I felt like a light bird feather,
carried far away from the quiet marina by the breeze,
and trembling, I covered my eyes... I was just daydreaming.

Maria Konopnicka (1842-1910)

Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski 11/9/2019

Since you have flashed in my silent sky
with a flaming star flying into the abyss,
I know what life is and I know what is dying,
- because of you I live, because of you I die.

You are a poisonous flower from which I collect nectar,
You are a thunder and a storm from which I draw silence,
You are grind and discord with which to sleep I rock myself,
I live because of you, because of you I die.

My chest is getting cold, my heart is beating fast,
under your kisses and under your touch,
I die with delight, with passion I rise,
- because of you I live, and because of you I die.

On you, oh wave, I lean my head,
on you I put my wings, oh raging gale,
with you, destruction, I double my strength,
I live because of you, because of you I die.

Your caresses are bells at my funeral,
Your caresses are golden bowls of happiness,
You are the fire that puts out the flames...
you are the water that starts a blaze...
I live because of you, because of you I die! ...

Maria Konopnicka (1842-1910)

i walked for 7 years in the forest of regretful deers

they spoke to me so quietly their deepest fears

i pet them gently and spores crumbled off their backs

their greatest fears come seeping through the cracks

The red brick roofs,
telephone wires,
and soft, evenings like this
are what I will remember
in the coming years.
Sipping lychee drinks
and watching the pale pink
of the horizon’s glow.
And it’s so still,
so quiet
except for the steady air
the breeze of distant cars
and children’s voices
from the old park.

This is the night town,
a town of peace.
though, really, it’s a village.
My village.
Unnoticed on common maps.
I used to see it as so,
so small
because I know every path,
every hidden street,
and all the fields that surround them.
But now I’ve realised
that it’s holy ground.
Ironic for an agnostic,
but I love the songs
the blackbirds sing
outside my window
in the mornings,
and at night,
and now,
the time when everything is soft.
Since we’ve passed the spring equinox
I’ll find comfort in
domestic love,
in a place it takes
fifteen minutes to walk round.
Please be quiet.
I just want to sit, and listen.

The smell of mahogany
as you walked through
those white wooden doors
and the dried lavender
that spoke of summers past.
She raved about the art deco
treasures and wonders she
collected and I was mesmerised
by the ancient modernity
sugar crystals of brown and gold
were put into darjeeling tea
next to collections
of handmade theatre masks
hung among portraits of
a younger blonde girl.
The sounds of a stormy night
as we sat eating some
honey roasted almonds
were a rhapsody to us at candlelight
I wanted to sketch her antiques
and add them to the
painting filled walls
one of them I found
was an old typewriter
a Mercedes that her mother had
found discarded in a dump
she didn’t know if it worked
and so gave me some ivory paper
now I sit with the lace tablecloth
by the window to the
evening street below
cars pass with the softest breeze
and I write of summers past.

Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski 11/6/2019

Don't hope for any light

Don't hope for any light in the midst of a storm,
neither on earth nor in the sky.
For whoever awaits it will certainly die
and he'll be a bell, ringing at his own funeral.
And only those won't be covered by the dark coat of night
who within themselves will find the light,
to clearly illuminate their path,
by kindling their own spiritual fire.

*by kindling their own fire of the spirit all alone.

A Toast

A fool would be the one who wants at sea depth
to quench the thirst that burns him from the inside,
who, clinging to the wide wave,
rises up with her and collapses into the abyss.
A fool! ... Life, the great cellarmaster,
is only going to give him a goblet full of bitterness.
Even without us, the seas flow into the abyss -
long live the wine!...

Maria Konopnicka (1842-1910)

Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski 11/5/2019

...Smaller than small is my spirit
And bigger than big.
Everlasting motion puts no limits
between the droplets of the sea.

Caught up in ocean's run
living waves roll free...
And one drop, which hits the bank,
is also called the sea.

Maria Konopnicka (1842-1910)

Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski 11/3/2019

And spring will come and it will open the buds,
but in my eyes it shall never die
the boundless white field...

And summer will come and ears of grain
shall ring. But in my eyes still, bright as day,
boundless white field...

And life will pass and death will cloud,
but in the coffin I'll open my eyes
into the boundless white field...

And midnight will come and I will rise from the grave
and I'll direct my pensive steps
to the boundless white field...

Maria Konopnicka (1842-1910)